


Friendless Rovers

by EatSnowAndDie, Masked_Man_2



Series: Wanderers' Unholy Trinity [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Adventure, Attempt at Humor, Banter, Bard - Freeform, British Slang, Developing Friendships, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Friendship, Jesters, Magic, Magic-Users, Male Friendship, Music, Musical Instruments, Musical magic, Older Man/Younger Man, On Hiatus, Philosophy, Platonic Male/Male Relationships, Role-Playing Game, Roleplay, Some Humor, Tavern, Tavern Brawl, The Bear and the Maiden Fair, Thieves and Pickpockets, Wanderlust, british accents, rogue - Freeform, thieves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-15 23:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11816169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EatSnowAndDie/pseuds/EatSnowAndDie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Masked_Man_2/pseuds/Masked_Man_2
Summary: Where the ale flows, banter and fists flow alongside in equal measure, in the unending twilight of an adventurer roving far from his chosen road.In which much ale is imbibed, several punches fly, bears perform questionable acts with maidens fair, spells are woven, songs are sung, and a naive youth finds out the hard way why picking the pocket of a seasoned bard is a very bad idea.





	Friendless Rovers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MyDaedricGravemind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyDaedricGravemind/gifts).



> Written by myself and [EatSnowAndDie](http://archiveofourown.org/users/EatSnowAndDie/profile), as Jago and **Gen**.

“Oi. Gen, lad. Tha’s yer name, I ‘ear. ‘Ave you anythin’ t’ say to a poor minstrel ‘ere? No’ very nice, tha’.”

 

**"Jago? Um..." Gen turns around to face the strange fellow speaking, holding a mug of malted beer. "Do I know you?" a small smirk printing his face.**

 

“Y’know me name,” the bard replied, shifting his position on the table upon which he was perched, strumming a gentle chord on the oud resting in his lap. “Isn’ tha’ enough for ye?”

 

**"Of course I know your name. The great bard, Jago is hardly a title to forget." he praises in so smooth a fashion, bringing his mug to his lips.**

 

“‘Great bard,’ ‘e says.” Jago couldn’t help but chuckle as he slipped into and out of the boy’s voice as easily as he would pull off a cap. “Tha’s some ‘igh praise, there, lad. Bit too ‘igh fer an ol’ rogue like me.” Turning his gaze back to the strings of his instrument, he began plucking out a quick, lively dance tune, long fingers flying over the frets of the oud as though they had been born to dance out their songs. “Mind you, I don’t object, nor if i’ gets me a pinch o’ coin. ‘Bout all anyone can ‘ope for, place like this, innit?” He flashed a quick grin as the music began to catch the attention of some of the tavern’s other patrons. “Wot say ye, lad? Care t’ oblige a feller in ‘is ‘opes?”

 

**“Well, I suppose, one rogue to another,” he’d flick a gold peace to the wild bard. “Do you take any requests?”**

 

Jago caught the coin deftly and immediately bit down on it, nodding with satisfaction at the solid, ringing CLACK his teeth made against its surface. Real gold, that was. Not a thing to carry around lightly, but a thing he’d be more than happy for the lad to divest himself of.                                                                         

 

“I do tek requests, mate, if I know th’ song ye’d be wantin’,” he replied with a wink. “Wor is i’ ye’d like to ‘ear?”

 

**"Hm." the young rogue thought for a moment before his eyes brightened with excitement. "How about, the Bear and the Maiden fair? It’s one of my favorites." he settled on his bar stool eagerly, finally taking in now the appearance of the rugged bard to whom he spoke.**

 

“One o’ yer favorites, eh, lad?” he asked, keeping his laughter to himself. Cor, but this boy was a lively one. His puppy-like eagerness was about as endearing as it was hopelessly, pathetically amusing. “Then y’ wouldn’ be ‘pposed to ‘elping me out, would ye, lad? ‘M afraid I’ve forgotten th’ words.” Pulling his flute from his jacket pocket, he placed the end of it in his mouth and made quick work of stripping off his boots and placing his harp at his feet. There was certainly an advantage in having toes longer than any human’s; this song was one of few he could play this way. Lucky, that, he reflected as he strummed the opening chords. “Ready when you are, pup,” he muttered around the flute. “Tek ‘er away.”

 

**A young boy he was, not yet reaching his eighteenth year. Eyes and brilliant blue and hair silvery white, he leapt to his feet upon the offer to make a little merry. Loathing not to let the opportunity pass, he downed the remains of his beer mug, cleared his throat and in all cheer began to unleash his youthful voice in song. "There was a bear, a bear, a BEAR! All black and brown and covered in hair! Oh come to the fair! The fair? said he, But I'm a bear! All black and brown, And covered in hair! And down the road, From here to there, From here!To there!" he continued on and on to the rhythm of the bard's gentle strums.**

 

Thank the gods they’d drawn in a crowd-- more specifically, a crowd rather loose with its coin. No bloody way would he have done this sort of bloody jester work for free. Bloody good thing ‘twas that there was quite a bit in the case of the harp. Either folk really enjoyed watching a bloke twiddle on the flute while simultaneously playing the harp with his feet, or else the boy was a spot of good fortune. ...Probably a bit of both, much as his professional pride hated to admit it. Ruddy pup had set the ale-sops to dancing. 

 

“Top work, lad,” he said as they finished to raucous applause. Clapping the boy on the shoulder, he quickly counted out the coins and split the pile roughly in half. The larger share was his, of course, but the boy had earned his keep. He wasn’t an entirely selfish fellow. “Buy yerself another round, if ye like. More ‘n enough, innit.”

 

**He gathered his share happily. "Plenty. Many thanks, friend." he was out of breath and in need of another round indeed after the good show. "And what if yourself, Jai? How about another round for yourself as well? On me."**

 

First round it would be, actually, which really was a bloody shame. So very old he really was not, merely twice the age of the lad, yet here he was, shacked up in a tavern stone sober. Great bloody shame. Almost as much of a shame as that barky nickname the lad had tacked on him.  _ Jai _ ? Of all things? Bloody sod. Pay him once, and he shot out of his britches like a manky adolescent on a growth spurt. 

 

“No’ one t’ refuse free drink, me,” he replied, tossing the words airily over his shoulder as he surreptitiously slid the coins into his battered purse. “But call me tha’ shoddy-arse name one more time an’ I’ll mek you wish you hadn’. A’right?”

 

**The young lad in all provoking pleasantry, grinned. "Or wha'?" he asked, mimicking his new acquaintance. "You'll fillet meh wi' yor flu'te? Or per'aps done me up tha mid'ew, et me alive then floss yor teef wi' yor lute strings?" he brought his mug to his mouth, causing his voice to echo inside. "I'm terrified."**

 

The bard ran his fingers gently over the strings of his harp, shaking his head slowly as he eyed the boy with an exasperation that was not quite fond dancing in his heavy-lidded eyes. 

 

"Imitations could use some work, lad," he said, voice deceptively mild as he slipped a small dagger from the boy's belt, unnoticed. Really, the look of astonishment on his face was worth the sting of the paltry insult as he twirled the blade between the fingers of the hand by occupied with the harp.

 

**"Likewise, mate." the boy replied calmly, working to recover from the surprise of another's hand in his own pockets. For nothing irked him more than a fellow theif, or any fellow for that matter, theiving from him. And if indeed this fellow felt he could invite himself to pick about his pockets, he was sadly mistaken. It wouldn't be the first time, though, he had had his pockets picked clean, but it would be the last. No one being a better dealer of hand that he, he who had yet no name, would make clear to this bard, that he was not to be trifled with. "But who am I to say?" he swished his mug around looking into it, paying not the least attention the the wiry fingers of the stranger who now held his dagger. "You would know before I, being the great performer you are; traveling to distant lands, crafting the most wonderous tales in song, making merry to even the greatest of kings.." his voice was the air of dreamy wonder. "It must seem like such a trifle to bother yourself amongst such menial company, eh?" he looked into the eyes of his acquaintance. "So busy with the thing up here," gesture at his head with his mug. -"that you firget the little things." The lad held up his hand infront of Jago's face which produced the very coin the lad had lent him. Bite marks still fresh. "You following, mate?" he tried to hide his smile.**

 

Perhaps the boy was not quite so much a mug as he seemed. He had much to learn, sure, but at least he'd shown a deft hand at actually picking pockets; Jago hadn't felt the boy creeping up in his purse, which was rather impressive, considering. Of course, the lead-up needed work; he'd seen the lad's intent miles in coming. No one piled that much flattery onto a fellow at one time unless they wanted something from him. It simply wasn't done. 

 

"Dunno,  _ mate _ ," he replied, with a minute flick of his dancing fingers. The dagger, so close to the boy as it was, barely seemed to move as the narrow blade drove itself through the hole between the boy's thumb and forefinger, which grasped the coin triumphantly.  _ His _ coin. The blade hit the table, burying itself an inch deep in the soft, ale-stained wood, and he plucked the gold piece from the lad's fingers with a small breath of laughter. "Though I'll be 'avin this back, if ye don' mind. Think I've more need of it than you 'ave."

 

**“Is that so?” said the lad, feeling a bit slighted by the bard's continued intrusive behavior. As imprudent as it would the following action would be, he couldn't help himself in his youth. He hadn't liked the put off-ness of this character towards him in his air of belittlement, that without further thought, the boy dropped his mug and in one smooth swing, struck the bard across the jaw with his knuckles. It seemed the night of ale-guzzling had gotten the best of him and his better judgment.**

 

**But that was not all. The sudden blow would have been enough he would've thought for any other man, but the boy was more heated than usual, so he followed after, before the man could have time to recover, with a second blow to the other side of his face then brought the next fist under his jaw; leaning his weight atop of the bar counter behind him- he brought up both legs to crush the bard's chest beneath their weight, driving him backward into a pile of card playing, ale soaked fools who protested wildly at the untimely interruption.**

 

**“Is this how you make friends, you dodgy tosser!? Assuming you have any!” he called to him arms open. “If that is so, you'll make quite a few tonight.” he then held up his fists in a well practiced fashion.**

 

If he had to get pushed anywhere, he thought, all the better it be against a table of sots too soused to notice that as he apologized to one whose ale he'd knocked into his lap, he was quietly nicking the purse of the two beside him. Lucky, too, that he'd left the oud and harp on the other table, or they'd have had a number done on them, and there'd have been hell to pay. Bloody expensive, those were, and difficult to make, besides. Let the lad pay for what he himself broke, right? Justice of the world, that.

 

He didn't try to defend himself-- would've done, sure, if it had been anyone else having a go at him, but even he had sense enough to recognize when he'd gone too far. The boy wasn't one to be pushed, or to take contests of wit and skill in the lighthearted manner that they were intended to be taken in. Fair enough. Less fun in it for him, of course, but he'd respect the hothead's stodgy earnestness for what it was. 

 

"I 'ave no friends, act'ally," he called back, muttering another  _ 'scuse me, fellas _ at the men at cards as he hitched his ale-soaked self up onto an elbow. "'Cept maybe our good tapster 'ere, righ'?" He waved one hand at said tapster, who accepted the jibe with a hearty laugh and a slap to a porky bloke passed out cold in the dregs of his tankard at the bar. 

 

"Still," he continued, jumping nimbly down with his hands held peaceably in front of him. "I don' wanna figh' wi' ye, lad. Nor ou' t' mek friends, either-- least, nor of th' sort you're speakin' of, d'ye know wor I mean? Dodgy tosser I may be, but I'm summat of a man of honor." ...Most of the time, anyway. 

 

**The young lad expelled a heavy breath from his lungs in what seemed like relief. He lowered his fists and slouched in a manner preferable to one heavy in drink than standing at the ready. He did afterall, drink much, and was fatigued, not that it showed just moments before. All in all he was pleased that the fellow chose not to fight for it was much more pleasant just jesting him as odd as he was. But perhaps the manner of his acting the way he did attributed to his being foreign to this area directly, and lacked the mannerism of the locals. Then again, so did boy himself.**

**"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, having no friends, I mean. Its just that," he patted at his leather armor tugging at it shyly now as if checking absentmindedly at his belongings making sure all was accounted for.**

**"I uh, don't have any either." his smile was small but earnest, all youthful fire burnt out and now only a warm constitution remained. "Just, do us both a favor and don't meddle with my pockets, if you please?" he retrieved the dagger from the bar top and replaced it back in it's sheath. Giving a small but careful eye to the surrounding spectators as the less drunk went back to their mugs and all returned to the normalcy of a merry inn.**

 

Spent now, the lad was, or so it seemed to him. The fire of youth was an impressive thing-- kindled by an overabundance of the burning spirit and energy that gave those young enough to retain their ideals and dreams their bright glow, set to roaring with the poisonous breath of spirits and cynical talk, doused by the sapping of the waking day's fervor. Barely a minute before had he been cocksure, bristling for a fight; now he was small and mild and devoid of temerity as a child clinging to the skin of wakefulness by naught but his fingertips, out of nothing else but sheer stubbornness. 

 

"A'right, lad, a'right," he said, raising both hands into the air in a gesture of surrender, dipping his head with a slow, lopsided smile creeping its way along his broad, thin-lipped mouth as he did so. "No more meddlin' wi' yer pockets, 's long 's  _ you _ keep yer own grubby fingers ou' me own. D'we 'ave an understandin'?" He gave the boy a wink as he spoke, letting him see the smile; he was teasing. There was truth in the jest, of course, but from one friendless rover to another, he could at least be friendly in his jibes. No harm in a little foul play, really. 

 

**"Yea," he agreed happily. "We do." he straightened out the bar stools and sat back down. "You're free to drink with me, if ya like. My offer still stands, more so now after those few blows I dealt ya. Might need a good ale for that in the morning, wouldn't you say?" he gestured for him to sit.**

 

"Reckon you've 'ad a bit too much, there, lad," the bard replied, lowering himself lithely onto one of the stools. He nodded to the tapster for a pint, but his mind barely paid heed to the motion, focusing instead on the all-too-familiar stiffness in his right hand, preventing his fingers from closing into a fist. The nerves had been too tense for too long, playing like that, and he closed his eyes briefly as he flexed feeling back into the stubborn digits. The hand hadn't been the same since he was a wee lad. Even now, he remembered the electric pain of nerves being crushed against bone as the hand was twisted out of joint by an armored hand, holding him fast and trussing him up like a limp straw doll....

 

But there was no sense in getting lost in the memory now, not in the company of this too-boisterous tavern and the too-inquisitive boy. Nor was there any sense in mourning the lasting effects. They'd pass, as did everything. Best let the memory pass, too. Better, even. Less mess that way.

 

He hadn't intended on getting pissed tonight, but...well. Free ale was free ale, and so long as he'd earned his keep, which he had, yes, sir, he could afford to reap the benefits for a night. He could afford to forget. A bit of a headache in the morning was a small price to pay for that.

 

"As fer me, I 'aven't 'ad enough." He'd regained dexterity enough to pick up the mug, for which he was grateful, and he raised it to the lad, arching his eyebrows mockingly as he took a long draught. Oblivion was calling his name tonight, and at the moment, he was all too happy to oblige. 

 

**"Bah, I'm only three hours in, not nearly enough to call it a night for me." he grinned, pouring the bard a drink. "As for you, you most definitely have not had enough." and so they drank pleasantly together droning on about the passing follies of the busy world and it's affairs. They'd lightly touch on each other but nothing that ever lasted to count for shared news unless it carried on to another so as the sole subject was anyone but either of them. And after an hour and three quarters more eased by did the lad enquire through heavy lips, still wet with ale,**

**"So, what lies ahead for you, friend? I hope adventure of some sort." his eyes were heavy and he leaned his weighted head into his hand as it was, using the bar counter for a brace. The late night getting the best of them it seemed.**

 

"Adventure's 'bout all anyone kin 'ope for, innit," the bard replied, slowly swirling the dregs of his tankard about. Something about the play of the firelight on the foaming amber liquid fascinated him, though he reckoned that had more to do with the pull of the ale on his weary brain than aught else. He was not nearly so drunk as the lad was, but that wasn't saying much; poor sod was bloody pissed. Like as not he'd be out in a wee while, and he himself wouldn't be far in following. Better to sleep it off than to try to wheedle more coin from the crowd in this state. Last time he'd done that, he'd about near started a riot. No one in his right mind would be particularly keen to repeat that experience. 

 

"'Oo's t' say, really?" he mused, more to himself, really, though the boy was sure to be listening. Better mind his tongue, him. "No'bdy ever really knows wot's ahead, th' wand'rers least 'f all. Reckon adventure'll find me if i' wants t'. Find you, too, lad, wouldn' be surprised. Fresh blood like yers. Bound t' find summat or other ou' there."

 

**He mulled over the elder's words like the liquid in his mouth, savoring and tasting them working out the man's meanings. The bard had a way with words making the sounds coming out of his mouth more difficult to understand than a local drunk at times, but then again he supposed that was a bard's job; twisting and manipulating words and speech with or without music, filling dullness of daily life with the spark of thrill in the hopes of those hearing it may not be so rendered of all excitement the world was apt to take. Life was hard and people even more so, but it was always the bard who had the power to change that, whether it be magical or not it was power still, a wonderful one, and the lad could only respect them and the occupation, even if not all were as amiable as the other, it was a remarkable and attractive talent.**

**"D'ya really think so? Life has nev'r shown what it has in store for me yet.. I should dearly like to know my purpose for being here.. Wouldn't you? I mean, that is the meaning for adventure is it not?- to discover who you are and what you stand for." he breathed his last words with conviction and thought, as though these things had long plagued his mind and soul. It seemed a philosophical discussion was in order and he was in the mood to challenge the great wonders of the world.**

 

"Pretty, pretty words, those," he replied, mulling over the boy's earnest proclamation as he drained his tankard dry. That sort of conviction, that hardness of breath and fire of passion singular to those to whom the world was yet a mystery, unsolved and unexplored and beautiful and its inability to be so known...what he wouldn't give to have that again! There was bliss in innocence, in ignorance, in youth. Like as not the lad was no stranger to hardship, thief's skills like his, but even then, there remained something untainted about him-- some purity intrinsic to his age, perhaps, or something of the like-- that the older man couldn't help but envy. When he'd last felt anything of the sort...only Avandra knew, not him, and like as not she wouldn't give a rat's arse, besides. What were mortal years to a goddess who was worshipped by so many and answered to none?

 

"Not only adventure, mind, tha' does wot yer lookin' for," he remarked, shaking off the more bitter thoughts lurking about in his ale-daubed brain, scrubbing one bony hand through thick, tangled hair as though the motion would tease out the stings of longing and despair, flicking them away like nits from a comb. "'S th' road i'self. Th' journey. Wot finds ye, finds ye-- 'f it's a battle, a thief, whatever, y'prove yer mettle, like. Courage. Strength. The' sort o' thing, right? 'Course, sometimes wot finds ye 's yerself, an' wor a lucky bastard y'are then. Tha's th' real adventure, 's findin' tha'. Yerself. Know wor I mean?"

 

**"Exactly!" the boy spoke with enthusiasm and relief at finding someone who understood what he had long desired. The new fellow seemed a fitting sort to relate to such aspirations, or so he felt; the poor gangly man, he was a rough sort to be sure but there was a dazzling fire within his eyes that told the lad that he had seen and experienced more than what he led on. This excited the young man and he wish that the elder would share his stories with him, for he knew no bard was truly a bard until he had a tale or two, and they never kept such to themselves if they could possibly help it.**

**"Thats what I want, to be shown what I can be and if I can become more. Just like you." he took a stab there figuratively. "You seem like you've done enough to answer for whatever questions you may 'av. You just, 'avn't really tried." he didn't notice himself beginning to ramble on,**

**"-you seem like you're scared, like you're running or hiding. You know what it is but you're too afraid to face it." his words heavy on his lips from the drink but his mind was ever benefitting in its submurged state, causing the deep thoughts and ramblings to flow contemplatively.**

 

"Doctor of the 'ead an' 'eart, are ye, now, lad?" the bard quipped, raising one eyebrow with a slow incredulity that the indifference in his dry tone belied. "Look into a man's eyes, learn all th' secrets of 'is soul? 'S that i'?" Truth be told, he could not have said from whence this sudden defensiveness arose. Coward that he was, he wondered if he couldn't simply blame the ale...in which case, he'd have to thank it on the other hand, for not robbing him of his wits to such a degree that he was unable to jest his way out of self-discovery. Pray from here to kingdom come that the boy wouldn't remember any of this come morning, he could do, but what was the point of relying on mere possibility? Nothing, like.  _ Nul point _ .

 

He couldn't in good conscience say that it hadn't occurred to him to simply lull the boy to sleep, gentle music lifting the memories of his words from his young and soused mind, but...bad form, that was, to go about tampering with the workings of a child. Best put him off the old way. Old ways were the best ways, so they said. 

 

"Bet you've go' yer own story playin' ou' be'ind those eyes 'o yers, there," he remarked, husky voice pitched low and lilting like slick sword-oil. "Bi' of a runner, 'm I righ'? Arms ablaze, 'eart in your 'and, searchin' fer an 'istory ye've lost an' a name t' call yer own? Tha's yer story, innit? Even just a part?"

 

**The lad shrugged bashfully at the words served him both in compliment and in jest. He hadn't known if his words hit their mark or had been voiced in vain, either way, he supposed they didn't matter. He had a way of voicing his opinion of the world and people, in some cases good and others, not so much. But he never meant ill to anyone of good will, indeed not. But it seemed to that the words expressed to his new friend had a negative affect, which of course wasn't his intention, and even in his heavy minded state could see the discomfort that arose from such intrusive insight. He therefore chose to accept the diversion of attention towards himself, in hopes of easing the bard's tenion, even just a little.**

**"A bit of a Doc, I suppose. If I would be so bold as to think myself as such." he stated, finally mustering up the silver in his tongue. "Though, I do think it comes and goes at its own pleasure, the great workings of the mind and insight further in, I mean." his glazy eyes locking onto the bard's own. "I'm a man of adventure or at least an opportunist at seeking it. I find an adventure is everywhere, around every corner and we need only persue it." he shrugged, raising his mug again to drink. "No point in letting any momentary gain slip by you. It may be the chance of a lifetime to do something great, and you'd be a mighty great fool to pass it up."**

**He lowered his mug in thought. And after swallowing asked, "Am I even making sense?" he chuckled.**

 

"Are any 'f us ever mekin' any sense?" he asked, voice dry as the moors in high summer as he met the lad's eyes with an indolently indulgent grin, raising his mug to his lips to hide the way it slipped, thin lips curling downward in contemplation. The boy was the quixotic sort, and no mistake-- wide-eyed idealist, and all that-- but there was some sort of working brain behind those glazed and weary eyes, with their passionate sheen like sunlight piercing murky water. No way to tell, really, what plan the gods had for anyone in particular. If you missed your path by a mile or even a single step, how would you know that it had all gone so terribly wrong, until you were at your prescribed end and able to look back with perfect clarity at what  _ should have been _ alongside what  _ had been _ ? 

 

He was right, in a way-- 'twas best to seize things as they came, knowing they might never come again. Bloody hypocrite he was, of course, saying that, but...well, the boy still had his chances. His youth. His hope. All men were fools by the end, but at the very least he had time enough yet to make himself less of one. Not himself. No bloody chance of that, no longer, for him who'd chosen the foolish path nearly from birth. What use was  _ hope _ to a man who'd deliberately left it behind? 

 

"You are, though," he murmured, the words drawn slowly from his lips, bogged down with the weight of thoughts unvoiced and memories unseen. "Mekin' sense, I mean. 'S much sense 's ye can of a life y' can't see. Tha's about all anyone kin do, innit?" 

 

**"Aye, it is." he breathed, sloshing his ale about in his mug. He was about to enter into another train of thought and philosophy when a great hand landed heavily on his shoulder, and not just his, but also Jago's; jostling them enough to spill their drinks.**

**"Well ain't this a quaint sight, the two of ya?" spoke a burly bearded man as he towered over them, no doubt mindful of his size and making good of it as a hobby, intimidating the locals to make some quick gold.**

**"How about you pay up, eh?" he patted them again, but this time there was a squeeze afterwards, showing them that any disagreements would end with punishment.**

 

Jago set his tankard aside slowly, licking a few errant drops of ale from his calloused fingers as he glanced appraisingly at the man whose meaty, grubby paw was now making itself unwelcome upon his shoulder. Bloke had to have about half a foot of height on him, at least, and was thicker about the body than himself and the boy would've been lashed together. Dark beard littered with crumbs and grizzled silver hairs, eyes bloodshot and cast in the jaundiced light of one too friendly with the bar tap. A thug, or something of the like, out to make a quick and brutal bit of coin. Bloody sod probably thought he could flash a bit of muscle, a bit of paunch, and have those he cornered cowering at his feet like bloody rabbits, trembling as they gave over their earnings.  _ Not bloody likely _ .

 

"Tha's me shoulder ye've got in your 'and, there, mate," he said, tone deceptively mild as he turned to gaze into the fellow's sickly eyes, brows raised ever so slightly, unable to keep the sardonic leer wholly from his face. "Don' even know 'oo y'are, an' you're encroachin' on me an' th' lad, 'ere. Bit discourteous, that, innit?"

 

Shooting the boy a warning look, the bard placed his hand over thug's, long fingers going straight for the pressure points as he lifted the grubby thing off of his jacket sleeve and onto the stained countertop-- not hard enough to hurt, but more than sufficient to capture the fellow's attention. Closing his eyes briefly in a feigned expression of discomfort, he pulled the strength of the magic up from within that deep place in his soul in which it lay, letting it thrum through his words as he leaned in close to the large man's ear. 

 

"If i's gold yer wantin', mate, 's nor us y'ought t' be twockin' from," he whispered, letting a small smile curl over his lips as the tell-tale glaze of enchantment dimmed the malignant gleam in the other man's eyes. "See this inn, 'ere? Round th' back o' th' stables, ye jus' migh' find a wee tack room tha's gor a tunnel or summat down inside. Burdened wi' yer gleamin' yeller, friend.  _ Burdened _ . 'Ere." 

 

Leaning back in his stool, the bard pushed his tankard, still three-quarters full, over to the thug, prompting him to sit heavily beside him and drink the contents down without a word. The fellow paid no heed to awestruck Gen wisely keeping mum, or to the barkeep who hastened to refill the tankard. His eyes and Jago's were locked, bound together with words and the strings of magic and fate. 

 

"Drink up, mate. I'm gonna tell ye a story. Story 'f 'ow a fellah by th' name o' Dorian th' Grey left this 'ere inn richer 'n a king's treasury, wi' no one th' wiser." And he set his fingers to the strings of his harp, the song dancing low and lilting from his lips as the thud drank and the candlelight dimmed, the haze of drink mingling with the weight of the magic pressing on the other's gaze until at last both gave way, and the man fell forward onto the counter, lulled into the dreamless sleep of memories forgotten. 

  
  



End file.
